


Whose Woods These Are I Think I Know

by Ori (magnetium)



Category: The West Wing
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-03-08
Updated: 2007-03-08
Packaged: 2017-12-29 05:37:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 954
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1001637
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/magnetium/pseuds/Ori
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Just a glimpse into the tangled web that is Toby/Jed. Title unabashedly stolen from the Robert Frost poem, "Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening".</p>
            </blockquote>





	Whose Woods These Are I Think I Know

Toby is used to being on his knees. He is kneeling when he says the Sh'ma each day, and many times while he is at prayer services. He knelt down the other day to fix a pipe that had burst beneath his sink, and he remembers getting down on his hands and knees to find his lucky pen earlier in the week, after it had hidden itself somewhere under his desk. His knees are still good, not yet afflicted with arthritis, although they do tend to get a little stiff. So he treats them kindly, aware of their great sacrifice to give him flexibility, and doesn't ask too much of them.

Right now, Toby thinks, would be a perfect example of asking too much of one's knees. Especially when half of one's conversations take place while walking, one should be very careful not to abuse any part of one's legs. However, he can't in good conscience move from the position he's currently in, nor would anything but the most dire warnings about his knees' imminent failing convince him to. He looks up at his President and tries to quell the storm of anxiety rolling through his stomach. He wonders if his knees have become a metaphor for the rest of him, if he has asked too much of himself this time, enough to cause permanent damage.

The President is smiling, looking almost _amused_ at his anxiety, as he reaches down to run his fingers through a few of the short, dark curls that lay against Toby's neck. Toby shivers and closes his eyes, blood roaring through him the way it does when he stands up too fast, but he's still kneeling. When he opens his eyes again, he is desperate for something to say, anything that would make this less of betrayal of... of everything: professionalism, White House policy, the American people, the US Government, God.

There is nothing to say, he realizes, that would change what they are doing. Nothing that will stop the sweat from trickling down his back and into the waistband of his trousers, here in this warm, humid bedroom. Abbey is out of the country, but that hasn't stopped him from thinking he can hear her walking in, or feeling like he is committing a sacrilege on sacred ground. He can smell her perfume wafting over from the dresser, and he is ashamed to admit that it hasn't dampened his arousal at all.

The setting summer sun is creating an orange glow around the window, illuminating just enough of Jed's skin as he disrobes to make it seem almost ethereal. Toby is terrified of his impulse to touch, but he can't stop himself from stroking one of the thighs before him, feeling the soft, downy hairs that cover it. He leans in to kiss a line down one of the veins, too stark and blue against the pale flesh. The man standing in front of him sighs when Toby's beard rubs the soft skin.

It is so much easier than it should be to stay here, resting his cheek against Jed's leg while he places tiny kisses on a part of the man he shouldn't be allowed to lavish attention on. His hands tremble, not out of fear, although there is that, but out of sheer relief as he lets himself indulge in pleasure that is so forbidden there are hardly words for it. The only word he can form, the only one that makes any sense, is a name, which he speaks before he occupies his lips elsewhere.

"...Jed."

Then there are bursts of excitement, like fireworks in a sky already lit with a sated moon, and he thinks to himself, "I haven't forgotten," then dismisses the thought, because surely it's like riding a bicycle? There are ridges and smooth plains and certain journeys to take between them, and even though the map is a little different each time, the basic geography is the same. And at the height of his travels, his nostrils filled with a sweet musk that intoxicates him as utterly as a strong whiskey would, he could swear that he can hear the chirping of crickets and the movement of the wind, exactly like the first time he did this, out in a barn that had just been emptied of early supporters and campaign staff.

When Jed collapses back against the bed, breathing heavily and chuckling in pleasure, Toby is able to keep his mind clear of everything but the smells and sounds that have taken him years back into the past, at least for a few minutes, until the President reaches down and urges him up onto the bed beside him. Toby feels the familiar tug of his belt, and he reaches out to touch the stomach he has been staring at for the last twenty minutes, his fingers exploring the soft, outward curves of it. The ache in his knees reminds him of the reality to which they are both subject, and he thinks briefly of teshuvah, of repentance. He knows his rabbi would urge him toward this, but he is unable to summon the will to turn back. His soul is not weighted down by their actions, only by the lies they must tell, and this scares him.

Toby prays a silent prayer, before he allows his own clothing to fall to the floor, that God will forgive him for his betrayals, and for the sins he must be committing, even if he can't feel their oppressive burden yet. Then his guilt is replaced by a soaring feeling in his belly, as Jed begins to touch him, his own fingers walking a map that is still familiar after so many years.


End file.
